


How My Brother Became More

by stupidHumans (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Stridercest - Freeform, davedirk - Freeform, dirkdave - Freeform, striders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stupidHumans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk confesses, an ain't nothin' pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How My Brother Became More

**Author's Note:**

> Okay okay so I'm using CapriciousPancake's AU don't hurt me

He looked over at you. He looked over at you, and the last thing you think of is how plump his lips look before he leans over and kisses you.   
His lips are soft, just like you imagined them to be. You kiss back, and you can't help but feel utterly alive, like everything that has led up to this point is nothing now, like this is the only moment that will ever matter.  
But then he moves away, with a look of remorse on his face. You want it to go away, you want it to evaporate. You want to kiss him again, to feel his breath wash over you and into your mouth; you want to feel your tongue on his and your hand on his and your everything touching his everything. He is everything.  
Everything you ever wanted.  
"I'm sorry."  
You are confused. You don't know why he should be sorry; you have wanted this too, for years now. You look up at him, and he seems like he wants to look at you too, but he doesn't. He turns his head away, so you touch his face with your hand.  
"I want it too," you say, and you feel more than sound breathless with anxiety. Your voice is nearly deadpan, even if you aren't sure why. You know what he will say before he says it.  
"We can't do this, Dirk."   
He does say it, and it hurts, worse than any ache you've ever felt. Worse than those nights when he would bring bimbos and sluttish men home to drunkenly ravish. Worse than when your afterglow of orgasm is gone and you sit with yourself and your hand in your room at night with the door locked and him drifting off to sleep just across the hall.  
But instead of saying something more, of touching him and bringing him back to you, you let him get up from your shitty couch and back down the hall to his room. You let him push his feelings aside to keep you 'safe'.   
What's ironic is this is the most dangerous you've felt in a long time.

After that, you two don't speak for a week. You ignore each other, ignore yourselves. You go to school and he writes his scripts. You put up with your classmates and he puts up with snotty directors. You come home each day, dropping your bag in your room and doing your homework before you dick around on the internet. You talk to Roxy, you talk to Jane, you talk to Jake, and when even he realizes that something’s up, you sign off. Your routine is becoming tiring. You feel tired, in your bones and your muscles and your face and your hands.  
Your peers at school aren't as easy to ignore. They taunt you, like always. They bicker and slap and their words sting worse than their hits. They don't care that your brother is famous because you don't own up to it; you're merely trying to pass through high school without a hitch and they seem intent on ruining that. Your teachers think you have problems (and you do, but hell if they're gonna know them) so they don't treat you as anything except the quiet kid who likes to read who has no friends.  
In reality that is you to them.  
Your brother, on the other hand, was no better off; stressful calls with his agent and meeting after monotonous meeting. He doesn't think he can take the stress of your love on top of all this, but you don't know that. He's scared that he's failed as a parent and a brother and that he's the lowest scum to ever live, but you don't know that. He fears for your mental health but you don't know that, and you think you're fine.  
You aren't.

It's Friday afternoon again. All of a sudden, like it crept along your arm until it bit you and made itself noticeable and painful. You don't speak to him at first; you're too scared to. Instead you skim about the apartment, not lingering too long in one place for fear of being cornered with ugly, horrible questions that you don't want to answer. Finally he catches you in the kitchen, you making yourself a sandwich, him standing in the entryway, muscles tense as if he were strifing rather than merely talking to the brother he's known all your life and most of his. You're not sure of what to say, so you don't say anything; you just watch him out of the corner of your eye as you spread too much peanut butter onto your slice of bread.  
"We need to talk." Just like that, arms folded, jaw set. You comply easily, forgetting the sandwich and moving to the living room to plop down onto the couch. Such nonchalance seems so out of place under the circumstances, but you've never been much for keeping a mood. Your brother is the dramatic one. He sits down a respectable distance from you on the couch and opens his mouth to speak.  
"Dirk," He starts off. "I've thought about it a lot, and I love you a lot. Maybe just brotherly or maybe more. I don't know yet. I don't want to hurt you or deprive you from going out and dating people your own age, falling in love with people your age. It seems selfish to keep you with me, so I won't. I feel like you have the maturity and responsibility to make this decision for your own though, so I won't tell you what you should do or shouldn't do. I just want you to know I love you as my brother either way, and nothin's gonna change that."  
He stops, and all you want to do is climb over there and hold him tight. You do the next best thing.  
"I love you too bro, brotherly and more." You get up and onto your knees and make your way closer. "I want this more than you think."  
At this close you can see Dave's eyes through his shades, and you recognize the tired sadness and guilt that he could always hide in his mouth and speech but never his eyes. You gently touch his cheek. "Don't think that you've fucked up, because you haven't."  
He looks up at you, but this time the look of remorse is better concealed and before you know what's happening he's pulling you closer and you kiss him, forceful and hard and needing like his lips are air for your tortured lungs.

**Author's Note:**

> So how bout them sadness (even if it was somewhat a happy ending)


End file.
